


Mirror Mirror

by reallyamerica



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Case Fic, Fix-it fic, M/M, canonverse, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8366323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reallyamerica/pseuds/reallyamerica
Summary: John Watson has been incredibly unhappy living with his wife, and when he joins Sherlock for what should be just another case, he reflects on this and isn't the only one who concludes that maybe he made a mistake with his marriage.





	1. He Didn't Know He Knew It Yet

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a pretty typical fix-it fic— it picks up where S3 and the special left off and will eventually tie everything up neatly the way I have always envisioned it.

“I disappeared and was reborn as someone else once before, John, don't think I couldn't do it again.” 

The words that his wife had said rung in John Watson’s ears as he walked down the streets of London, hands balled into fists in the pockets of his coat. He and Mary had been fighting with increasing frequency and ferocity as of late, and though none of it was enjoyable, this fight had gone farther than any of the previous.

As soon as those words came out of her mouth, Mary's face contorted in regret. She scrambled to apologize, (John, I didn't mean it, you know I didn't, I just got worked up in th—) but he slammed the door on his way out before she could finish. Off into the night, fuming. How dare she suggest that she was able to just run off carrying their child, his child?

His hands clenched a little tighter in his jacket. Maybe she hadn't meant it, she probably hadn’t, but to let her get away with such a threat was not on John’s agenda for the evening. He was getting sick of all of their not-so-little domestics. He played it in his mind that he couldn't fathom why they were happening more and more often these days. It's pregnancy hormones, he told himself internally, excusing the whole situation. Excusing the truth. 

John Watson was not a man made to be idle. And Mary was not blind. She could see–with ever more clarity with each passing day –how unsatisfied the life that the two of them were endeavoring to have was leaving and would always leave her husband. John knew it too, of course, he was a smart man. Only, he didn't know that he knew it. Yet.

He knocked just once before letting himself into 221B, as he'd done so many times before, only to be greeted by Mrs. Hudson’s head peeking out from one of the rooms to see who'd come in. She scuttled over with her arms outstretched.

“John! Oh, how lovely. Come, have a seat at the kitchen table, I'll put the kettle on. I was just reading the most darling book when you turned up, but don't worry, I'm much happier for your company than the story’s. What's brought you by so late?” John let himself be pulled in for a hug, and couldn't stop the slight smile that appeared on his face as she gave his cheek a motherly sort of kiss and his arm a squeeze. He followed her into the kitchen.

“Right, it has gotten late, hasn't it? It's great to see you as well, Mrs. Hudson, as always. I've come to see Sherlock. I need to talk to him, if I can take a raincheck on your offer of tea. Is he in?” He wrung his hands, shifting from foot to foot just in front of the doorway to the hall. Polite, not unfriendly, but definitely in a bit of a hurry. Focused on something else. Mrs. Hudson gave him a rather peculiar sort of look.

“I know, since you've been married, that the two of you haven't been as close as you used to be, but I thought you still knew what one another was up to. Sherlock’s rarely in, dear. Hardly ever is here overnight. I'd guess he's likely with that Molly— or out working, you know how he is, never keeping a regular sleeping schedule, anyhow, and he's even worse about it without you here to tell him to quit now and then. He doesn't listen to me, of course.” She rambled on, putting water on for tea despite what John had said. He ignored most of her babbling, stepping forward and putting a hand on her arm.

“He doesn't live here anymore? Why not?” He needed clarification. Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

“No, he does. Well, he still rents the place, at least. And he comes by during the day quite a bit, always fooling with experiments and bringing horrible things back from the morgue, but he never stays very long. I think he's been sleeping somewhere else. I haven't the faintest where, mind you, but I haven't seen his bedroom touched in nearly two months. I think he feels odd spending all his time here without you, like he remembers it. I know he's said he was working on something, but he hasn’t told me anything very specific, I'm afraid. He didn’t mentioned any of what he's doing, to you?” John dropped his hand as she spoke, pressing his lips in a hard, flat line. Sherlock was sleeping somewhere else. Where? Flashing a brief grin at her, he shook his head just once. 

“Not really. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You don't mind if I go up to the flat and wait for him, do you? Mary and I had a spat and I couldn't think of a better place to head for a bit of time away.” He was already walking back into the hallway as he spoke. And he was on the first step as Mrs. Hudson answered.

“Overnight? Oh, no, I'm not bothered. Go right ahead. If he doesn't come by, though, you must come down and have breakfast with me tomorrow morning. It's been too long, John. Too long!” He gave a ‘mhm’ in response to her calling up the stairs after him. 

The air in the flat smelled vaguely of chemicals, likely Sherlock’s doing with whatever he was testing recently, and not much was different than it always was. But the stacks of boxes and paperwork and important research and so on that was often cluttering the table, and sometimes the floor and couch as well, had crept somewhere new. John’s chair was completely buried. At first he wasn't entirely sure it was even there, beneath it all. It only took him a few minutes to clear it all off. And he sat with a huff.

Sherlock’s chair was significantly less interesting without him in it, and John found himself reclining in his seat and staring at the ceiling. For a few moments. Until he fell asleep, eyes drooped shut and head lolled back, mouth hanging open slightly. Quite the sight.

Especially for Sherlock, when he strode into his home the following morning with his fingers pressed together beneath his chin and his mind concentrated on the problem at hand– a case. Always a case, always a mystery, always something. Right now it had to do with an innocent immigrant woman who’d been accused of something, and he had to help prove it wasn't possible she’d done it, even though she'd been framed. He was sure there was a mistake he could identify and use to clear her name, if he thought long and hard enough. But he forgot his train of thought when he saw John snoring in his chair, back at 221B for the first time in quite a while. One side of his mouth upturned.

“Well,” He began, loudly enough that he startled John awake, “to start, you haven't brought an overnight bag with you. That suggests you left home in a hurry. The state of your hair says you walked here, an odd choice for someone with a psychosomatic limp, even one that has improved greatly and been recovered from. This tells me that you were amped up, agitated. You had a fight, with Mary, obviously. Otherwise your wedding ring wouldn't be shoved in your pocket. And who else would you fight with on a Tuesday night, only to come to Baker Street without calling and proceed to fall asleep in your old flatmates previously occupied armchair?” Sherlock’s eyes were flashing, a little, as he spoke. But his words weren't said with any harshness. It was almost playful. John rubbed his own, tired eyes, inhaling deeply. Sherlock took off his coat and hung it up, taking a seat across from his… whatever they were to each other. Across from John.

“Good morning to you, too.” John muttered, blinking his eyes to adjust to all the sunlight streaming in, yawning. Sherlock crossed his legs.

“Tell me what happened.” John didn't answer, sitting up and shrugging his jacket off, and running a hand through his hair. 

“Where have you been sleeping?” He diverted, resting his hands on the arms of his chair. Doing that again felt like coming home after a long trip. Sherlock stood and walked toward the wall by the couch, studying the florets he already knew everything of note about as if he might uncover something new hidden in the wallpaper. He tucked one arm into his chest and the other by his chin, as if deeply pondering John’s question, posture straight.

“At Molly’s. Mostly.” He replied simply, turning around to face John again. “What did you and Mary argue about?” 

“At Molly's? Or with Molly?” Sherlock made a face at John’s insinuation. John just looked at him curiously, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“At. I assure you, I have no interest in Ms. Hooper, either romantically or sexually. She's a… friend. You know that. She's been allowing me to sleep at— at —her place, on occasion, for a month or so. Now, if you'd stop avoiding my question,” John blinked up at him as Sherlock approached his chair, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed slightly, “What happened with you and Mary, last night?” Sherlock asked with a tone of insistence. John stared a moment, mouth open but saying nothing. And then he was shrugging.

“It wasn't anything, really. It was rather stupid. It–“

“Then you should have no trouble explaining it to me, Dr. Watson. About. What. Did. You. Two. Fight?” Sherlock was having none of John’s nonchalance. John pressed two fingers to his temple, as if trying to rub out the unwanted interrogation from his mind and by some miracle his life as well.

“I was watching a neighbor of ours. I have a feeling that this stay-at-home husband in a flat only a few down from us is cheating on his wife whenever she's out of town for business. She told me I was being insane, I told her she was one to talk, it escalated, I left. Happy?” John explained, begrudgingly, waving a hand in an attempt at dismissal. Sherlock mulled for a moment, deciding if that was enough for him for now. It wasn't much. Then again, he never really needed much, did he? That would do, for the time being, he concluded. He returned to his seat.

“Like a child on Christmas. Mrs. Hudson told me you wanted to speak with me, on my way up, and I tuned out the rest of what she said, which I can now assume was something about your being here, but I also didn't catch what it was that you wanted to discuss. I'm here, you're here, what did you need?” Sherlock did one of his little smiles, and John sat forward in his seat. They both had their arms crossed. Mrs. Hudson dropped something, downstairs, and muttered aloud to herself. London was starting to sound noisy outside. Lots of sounds but little to be heard within the flat. John rubbed the back of his neck.

“I'm not sure, actually, after the mess with Mary, I just wanted to come talk to you.” He admitted, “And what better place is there to go than 221B when you're having a shit evening, anyway?” He chuckled, shortly, a thick swallow bobbing down his throat as his laughter trailed off. Awkward. He didn't want to make it awkward, for it to feel or be awkward. Sherlock was looking at him, almost eagerly, as if waiting for him to continue. He sucked his lips in, and then spoke. “You seem to be in a good mood. Was there a triple homicide? I know those always get you going. Have you got a case? Or are you just happy to see me?”

“Both.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. This caused the smallest smile to crack on John's face, just as Sherlock continued. “My client at the moment, however, is very much alive, unfortunately. But it's not entirely boring. Thankfully. Are you interested in coming with me while I work, today, like you used to? I’m heading out in just a bit.” He bounced his foot as he spoke, mind wandering. John and Mary, Mary and John.

Mary was bothered by John being nosy? That didn't seem like her, based on experience, and Sherlock wanted to understand precisely what was wrong in the Watson household. What could John have unknowingly done to irritate her, what underlying problem could have surfaced, what unresolved conflict persisted? John was watching his neighbor because he thought that he was up to no good. Was he trying to solve what was happening, like it was a case? Was Mary upset that he couldn't seem to leave that hobby– that life –behind him? Couldn't start anew with her? That seemed the most probable answer. He'd have to have a real talk with John or Mary or both about it, eventually. He wanted, needed, John to be happy. But right now he was having a different conversation. A friendly sort of one. To which his attention was drawn back when John cocked a brow and spoke to him.

“I'm not saying no, but, hang on, were you working last night? Shouldn't you sleep before getting right back in the thick of it?” John looked concerned. Sherlock sighed, drumming his fingers on his arm.

“I caught a few hours of sleep last afternoon, I'm fine. I'm leaving in about five minutes, with or without you, though I must say I’d prefer your company. Will you join me?” He smirked, faintly, and John nodded slowly.

“Of course. I've not got anything better to do.” John mirrored Sherlock with a tiny, crooked grin of his own. More than he'd like to acknowledge, part of him had hoped that by coming to visit Sherlock he'd get roped into working with him on a case. Sherlock stood, walking towards the door. 

“Mrs. Hudson! Is breakfast ready?” He shouted, grabbing his coat and folding it over his arm. 

“Yes, but it's not to-go. You two have to sit down with me! I never see you, let alone together, anymore. There's bacon!” She yelled back, voice a little sing-songy even though she was trying to scold them. Sherlock clapped his hands together, looking to John.

“Shall we?”


	2. Working Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've got a case!

About ten minutes later, after jogging down the steps and to the waiting food, and after eating as much of it as they could in a hurry, Sherlock and John were outside flagging down a cab. He was explaining the case he'd taken for the immigrant woman when they got one, finishing as they climbed inside. John flexed his hands.

“Alright, so we've got to visit the scene of the crime, then, yeah? So you can do your thing and figure out what actually happened?” Sherlock shook his head.

“I've already been to the crime scene, and it’s occurred to me that the woman who asked for my help couldn't have committed the assault and theft because in order to break into the building she’d have had to raise her arms above her head to climb to the unlocked window. But she had breast reduction surgery two weeks ago, and therefore could not have done so without ripping the stitches on her chest and towards her armpits. I've just texted the proper people, that case is closed.” He told John with a tone of finality, dismissively confirming it was already done. He went about doing something on his phone, leaving John with a bewildered expression on his face. His phone blipped with another text. Sherlock typed. John licked his lips.

“Sherlock, if you've already solved it, where are we going?”

“There are always criminals to catch, John.” Sherlock winked as he said this, causing John to raise a brow. He gave the consulting detective a look that said ‘damnit, tell me what we’re doing, keep me in the loop’, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes and added– “A new crime scene. Lestrade just informed me there's been a murder.” John’s eyes flickered between the mobile that Sherlock was waggling at him for emphasis and the look on his face. He cracked another smile.

“Alright, then.”

When they arrived at the home where the murder had been committed, there was a man with blood all over his hands, and the front of his shirt and pants, talking to the authorities on the front step, and Sherlock frowned a bit when his eyes fell on him. Lestrade, seeing this, came over grinning.

“Didya think we’d already caught the criminal and get your feelings hurt? Don't worry he's—“

“The victim’s best friend, so, obviously not. The pattern of the blood on his clothing combined with the believability of his teariness would not suggest to me that he was the killer. Will I be able to speak with him after I take a look at the body?” Lestrade looked defeated for a moment at Sherlock's response, and then nodded.

“Good.”

John furrowed his brows, following his friend into the house where the murder had occurred, hands folded behind his back.

“The blood?” He asked vaguely, picking up his pace a little so he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Sherlock as they made their way down a hallway toward a sitting room. 

“Yes, the blood. The placement of the blood on his arms and clothes was indicative that he held the dead or dying victim on his lap and against his lower abdomen. This could mean he had picked the body up this way to carry and move it, but considering his visible lack of physical strength I wouldn't imagine him very capable of carrying a limp adult male, no matter the proportions. So, rather, he seems to have come upon the body already on the ground, and knelt beside it, pulling him close in panic.” He gestured a bit as he spoke. John nodded, but raised a finger.

“But that doesn't mean he's the victim’s best friend.”

“No, but I saw a few photos of the crime scene that Donovan was looking at over her shoulder, and our victim did not have a wedding ring, whereas the man in question had a time-worn gold band on his ring finger. Married, years, but not to our body. So he's not spouse to the dead, yet he's clearly deeply upset by what happened. And they certainly aren't related— again, I saw pictures of the vic, the difference in their facial structure doesn't indicate biological relation to me in the slightest, so what does that leave? Sure, he could just be a stranger or an acquaintance traumatized about having found a dead body, but the pulling him close tells me that it's more than that. A reasonable assumption would be that they were friends. Considering it’s midday on a week day, and the body was found less than an hour ago, this would not be the easiest time to meet with someone when you've got work unless it's an established part of your schedule, so I presume they spent quite a lot of time together. Conclusion: best friends.” Sherlock clapped his hands together as he finished speaking. Had he been a lesser man, he might've needed to catch his breath after such an explanation, but practice had made him impervious to the perils of a lack of oxygen from talking, so he merely smirked, lazily, with a smug twinkle in his eye. John was impressed, as ever, but frowned.

“Yeah, but, I mean, doesn't that all seem a bit circumstantial and speculative?”

“Fine. It was more of an educated guess than a wholly logical deduction, but I had a strong hunch that it was his best friend, partially based on experience.” Sherlock admitted with some chagrin. As they came upon the body, he started to make his way over. His eyes left John's face and dipped to the floor where the victim lay.

“Why?” John pressed, Sherlock stifling a groan of irritation. 

“Because I've seen the look he had on his face, before. On you.” He said in a way that could almost be described as softly, were it not for the hint of begrudging in his voice.

“Oh…” John responded a little breathily, nodding his head slowly in understanding. He cleared his throat, eyes on the side of Sherlock's face as he crouched over the body beside him, rubbing his chin.

“Let's get to work, shall we? Have a look, doctor, tell me what you think.” Sherlock expertly turned the subject back to the murder, and John quickly went along with this, examining the body. As he did so, Sherlock pulled out his collapsible magnifying glass and began to look around.

“It appears the cause of death was from a combination of internal and external hemorrhaging, and damage to the lungs from the multiple stab wounds our victim took to his chest. None on his back, either, they're all right in the front. Close proximity. He was facing the murderer and standing fairly close, then. That's a bit of an intimate way to kill a person, so, I guess it's likely he knew his killer?” John rattled off his observations, and Sherlock hummed in semi-noncommittal agreement.

“Not bad,” He curled two fingers, gesturing for John to join him to where he'd wandered with his magnifying glass on the far side of the rug that the victim was laying on. “Look at the blood spatter on the floor and the wall over here, what do you see?”

“A blank space— something was blocking the spray?” John asked, raising his brows when Sherlock’s eyes twinkled and his mouth curved up a little. Sherlock stood, posing like a knife wielding maniac, lining his calf, hips, and arm up as best as he could with the gaps in the blood pattern. It wasn't perfect but his point was made.

“Someone.” They said in unison. Sherlock stepped away, nodding happily at John, and pulled out a few more things. He used a measuring tape to estimate the length of the blood spatter outlines of the various body parts of the attacker. Then, using his phone, he pulled up a reference of his studies in various shoe marks, comparing a picture to a small imprint in the carpet. He nodded to himself.

“I'd say we’re looking for a female, likely around 165 cm tall, with what I would guess to be an expensive taste in shoes.”


End file.
